The Hand of an Angel
by Madame Lazla
Summary: A three-part doodling I did one holiday. DracoxRon Post-Hogwarts
1. Chapter 1

*DRACO*

* * *

We could have stayed. We could have fought – brandished our bloody sticks about at the very least. We could have done something more, something good, and something to atone for our past sins.

But what did we do? Walk away.

I'm beginning to learn that about my family. In Mother, I had expected it. The woman stunk of cowardice and her eyes always shone with fear: of her husband, of her allegiance with the Dark Lord, even of me when he was in one of my (rather reasonable) moods. But in Father, in the proud and all-powerful Lucius Malfoy, I had never expected such a pathetic show of…of what exactly? Could it be called loyalty that, once Pothead and his Muggle-loving twats had won the day (ONCE AGAIN), Father backed out? Copped-out in the commotion? What were they thinking as they hurried me away, tails between their legs? That they'd stay alive longer if they ran while they still had the chance?

Idiots – my survival skills are more astute. We should have switched sides the minute we saw the writing the wall – done something sickeningly self-sacrificing. Earned the trust of Potter and the gang and we would have saved our reputations as well as our genetically attractive hides. The Malfoy name would remain unsullied. But now? The hierarchy was such: so-called "Good" Pure-bloods; Mudbloods (shudder); Squibs; House-Elves; Muggles; The Floor; Death-Eaters and, FINALLY, the Malfoys. Motherfucking MUGGLES ranked higher! All because Lucius didn't have the balls to admit he was wrong, apologise and grovel to keep his place – OUR place! – on the magical food chain. The money: gone. The power: gone. And it was only a matter of time before Malfoy Manor was the hands of the Ministry.

But I suppose there's a blessing in here somehow, if one tilts one's head, bangs it against the pavement a few times. I suppose needn't worry about how I act anymore and I'm no longer bound to Father's will by trust funds and inheritance. And I suppose not having to blindly serve that nose-less paedophile is a large step in the right direction.

Which is why I am in my room, packing what little belongings I have into a small bag. I used to have such beautiful things; such expensive paraphernalia that oozed dark power. But of course, Muggle-loving, backstabbing Ministry made sure the Manor was the first house to raid. It didn't even feel like my room anymore, just some place where I'd brood and plot. Plot how to get myself out of the mess my parents put us in. And the stunt I was going to pull would soon see to that.

Clunking down the stairs in a rather undignified manner, missing the lack of house-elves at my beck and call. Damn Ministry. Damn karma. Damn that coward Lucius.

Father is in (what is left of) our private lounge, sitting stiffly in a worn armchair that is placed opposite my mother's recliner. Neither of them talks, or for that matter, moves and their eyes seem unfocused. It is almost as if they are staring, not at the empty darkness that envelops the room, but on the past glories: the parties, the meetings and the whippings of both house-elves and prisoners. Ah, such happy times.

Neither seems to hear me enter the room, my booted feet forcing dust to rise from the floorboards. It doesn't seem like they are going to notice my presence either, but I'm not ready to do what has to be done. I study their faces, trying to commit them to memory.

Mother is looking worse for wear. Her robes are tattered at the ends and almost as dusty as the floor itself. Her jewellery hangs limply off her, as if they were wilting flowers. Watching her lay there, hand rested lightly across her stomach, I am able to catch a bit of her former self. Under all her wrinkles and sagging flesh, that is. I wonder if she is still breathing.

And Father…our fall from grace hit him the hardest. His silver hair has dulled to a musty grey and I have never seen so much hair on his face – granted I have never seen hair on his face EVER, but now I can't even tell where his mouth is. His appearance is dishevelled and dirty; his once regal manner has dissolved as he slouches in the chair, one leg hovering over its arm. In his hand he has a tumbler of Firewhiskey. His body and aura reek of the shit. Why was I afraid of this man again? Why did he have such a hold over my life when he can hardly see past his next glass?

And dear God could they at least bother to wash? The whole room smells like mould and armpits – a bit like what I'd expect the Weasel's little hovel to smell like.

I clear my throat loudly. Very loudly. Accompanied by my boots stomping and banging on the door. Damned if they ignore me now. The pair both jump out of their skins. Pathetic. I'm really beginning to think I am adopted. I lower my bag and broom to the floor as gently and elegantly as I can because, quite frankly, I still have some shred of dignity left.

Mother is the first to react. "Draco?" she rasps as she cranes her head to look _through_ me with her glassy eyes. I can hear her neck cracking and stifle the urge to wince at how she says my name. Almost as if she forgot she had a son. Great. Shan't be missed by her then.

"For God's sake boy, must you make yourself a constant nuisance in my life!?" Lucius snaps from his chair. He won't even look at me because he knows he's lost whatever control he had – he knows his voice no longer sends tremors through my body. Although I do feel something dangerous swirling in myself today; slithering and twisting around my very being. I'm going to do it, finally!

"Father, Mother, there's something I have to tell you," I hate the way my voice is shaking slightly. Dammit I practiced this speech incessantly for THREE days! How DARE my voice betray me now? I think self-empowering thoughts about my eyes being icy pools of everlasting beauty as I steady my breathing.

It's almost as if I haven't spoken, the way Father keeps staring into space and Mother gapes at the wall directly behind me. I take this silence as consent to continue, and do so before I lose my nerve.

"…Well, I've known this for a while and, now that we haven't a thing to our name and this won't affect anything meaningful, I'm gay."

Father's looking at me now. Directly at me as if I've sprouted a prick on my nose and am performing a belly dance wearing the family silver as jewellery. His jaw is tightening and the colour is coming back to his face.

_Be calm, Draco. He has no hold over you! He can't hurt as much as a silvery smooth, sinfully soft follicle of hair perfectly placed on your beautifully coiffed, deliciously smelling, silky …._

"You WHAT!?" that is the most energy Lucius has used in months, that is. I'm a little proud that I managed to wrangle such a reaction from my dead-alive father. So the bastard's still got it in him, glad to know…

"I. Am. Gay. A homosexual. Boy on boy. Do try to keep up, Lucius," I'm a little excited that I'm back chatting my father – normally I'd reduce myself to mumbling and skulk away. Not this time.

Father's face is getting redder and Mother looks like she's refocusing again. I want to skip, and jump, and laugh at this situation. But that would not be graceful or attractive in any way, so I decide on a lip twitch to best express my elation. I decide on a snort instead of a laugh as Lucius shakily rises from his seat.

"How dare you enter my lounge – "

"What's left of it," I counter.

"– confess yourself a FAGGOT – "

"How eloquent."

"And have the nerve to insult me!?" his hand reaches around him for his cane which doubles as a wand holder. I haven't the heart to tell him I used it as firewood the night before to symbolically cut ties to my past fears. I had the reigns now, and Lucius was beginning to realise it.

"Get out," he whispered in a deathly voice, sparks of his old self returning. For a split-second I want to blubber, to apologise, but I keep my face neutral, "You're no son of mine, you little fairy. You disgust me."

"And you disgust me, you little coward," I sneer at him, "And I'd rather suck cock than live in your house! You're both so pathetic," I turn on my heel and grab my things and before I know it, Lucius is across the room and on top of me.

I give a strangled cry and kick at him, which forces him off me. Unfortunately he seems determined on gay bashing the living daylights out of me. He gives a howl which catches me temporarily off guard – enough time for him to land one in my face. My beautiful, angular face. I'm knocked onto the floor and he is on top of me in the physical sense, landing another perfect hook. I can already feel my eye closing up and my nose bleeding.

Oh, he's going to pay for this.

I fumble into my robes and pull out my wand. I really want this git to hurt. "_Crucio!_" I scream and suddenly the assault on my gorgeous visage is over. I stand up, watching Lucius squirm. The git had it coming. For years. I add a few hexes just for good measure.

I hear a shuddering breath and look up at Mother, quite forgetting that she is there. Her eyes leave her tortured husband and lock with mine. Her mouth trembles.

I push my hair out of my face, stiffly spit a "Goodbye, Mother", and I'm flying out of the Manor before Lucius has time to get up.


	2. Chapter 2

*RON*

* * *

_Three weeks later:_

"Uh… run this by me again?" I place my drink down on the table. My girlfriend stares into her cup, as if the tea was the one she's breaking up with.

"It's…oh Ron I'm so sorry," she stutters and I can tell she's trying hard not to cry. I reach out to touch her arm, to comfort, but she stiffens. It hurts, but I don't force it and let my hand fall limply to the side.

God she looks lovely in this light. It's moments like this when I realise I'll never love anyone like I love her. I shove my hand in my pocket.

"How long have you…_known_," my voice sounds alien, even to me. Cold, distant. Almost as if I've been taking speech therapy from Malfoy. It isn't even a question I'm asking; more like an accusation. My bright little girl picks up on this and winces.

"..f-for a while now. B-but it's not like I did anything while I was with you…I would never cheat on you!" silence, "…I never meant to hurt you, Ron!"

I scoff, using my free hand to chug a mouthful of Earl Grey, "I'll bet."

She jerks her head up at me. Tears slowly slide down her pale, soft cheeks. She's angry and sad, but it's because she knows I'm hurting that she says nothing. She knows I'm being a prick to make it hurt less – she knows everything about me.

There's an awkward silence around us, as she twirls the cup around and I pretend my drink's interesting. I don't know what to say and I want her to leave: leave the Muggle café, leave my life, and leave my mind. Finally, after half an hour of pure awkward, she stands up and hurriedly gathers her jacket and handbag. She's really crying now, whispering an "I'm sorry" before running out into the London cold. No one seems to really notice besides the madly-in-fucking-love couple at the next table. I scowl at them and they return to cooing sweet nothings to each other. I slam some money down and march out. Not after her, but to the nearest pub.

I'm not nearly drunk enough to handle this.

* * *

I'm stumbling around, smiling at anyone who I bump into. Everything's so warm and beautiful and the sounds of the streets are like music to my ears. I'm swimming through a living painting, slow lazy colours moving as if trying to make love with each other and I want to get caught up in the love. Someone's humming something in my ear, some old wizarding song about frogs or something. I want to tell them to shut up, but as I put my fingers to my mouth, I realise it's me who's singing. I laugh heartily.

The colours aren't so bright anymore. Think I'm in some darker part of London. Some or other sign swings above my head. I try to make out the words. K…no…tur….Alley…

Knotur Alley? Never heard of it.

There are strange shadows all around me and suddenly I feel very afraid. I heard stories from Dad about drunken Muggles who'd get stabbed and robbed for wandering the streets at night. I really don't want to die, but I don't know where I am or how to get home. A particular shadow seems unbearably close – I can feel its menacing smile.

I fumble for my wand, dropping whatever else was in my pocket, and whip it out. "Don't…I'll…"

The figure comes out of the shadows. It's a boy, a pretty boy. A _really _pretty boy. He's like an angel.

It isn't until he blinks and smiles that I realise that I said it aloud. I feel something happening in my stomach as I watch him. His face seems to go through tunnels and in and out of proportion, but I'm seeing his soft, thin lips; his lean frame that flushes against me and the thin, long fingers that snake their way down the front of my jeans…

He's rubbing me through the denim with those fingers and I feel dizzier than when I was moving. I feel the warmth of his breath tickling my earlobe and the slight impression of his nipples against his thin cotton sweater as my hands skim over my body. Isn't he cold? I press my body closer to him and wrap him in a bear hug, vaguely aware that his breath hitches as I do this.

"S'cold," I slur into his shoulder and I hear him snicker. Again I'm feeling something stir inside me and something cold hits me below my waist. His hand is in my jeans, in my underwear and firmly around my cock. Something about this makes me wildly excited if not rather confused and stupidly hard.

He seems not to care as his hand lazily slithers up and down up and down up and down. I throw my head back and in a second, I'm seeing stars. Bloody Hell, his motions and the slight buzzing in my head are so _good_. I don't know if I'm talking or thinking or moaning or humping into his cold hand but it's over too soon and he withdraws his hand, wiping it on my thigh. I'm trying to catch my breath and figure out why my underwear's so sticky and wet. The world takes another bloody surprise twist and I crash against him, forcing him against the wall.

I think I call him an angel again. I hear him snort as he lets me rest against him awkwardly for the longest time. I feel the side of my face tingle as he presses his cheek on mine and places his lips softly against my ear.

"That'll be thirty galleons, _Weasley_."

"Wha…EH?" I stumble back, trying to get a look at him. He's smirking and I don't know why, but I should know him. I should.

I trip into something and fall back on my head. The last thing I see is the angel frowning.


	3. Chapter 3

*DRACO*

* * *

"Ugh…"

Finally, the oaf awakens. I've been sitting at the little wooden table, debating ways on waking him up, because I am quite fatigued and am not very impressed with the twelve-foot pole of redhead taking up my bed.

I'm not quite certain why I felt the need to bring him here. I was better off leaving the git to rot where he'd drunkenly tripped. What was a goody-two shoe Gryffindor doing wandering around Knockturn Alley in any case? It would have done him some good to get knocked about a bit. Perhaps I brought Weasley to my room so that I could bask in his humiliation: of all the ways to reunite with your old nemesis, soliciting them in a dark alleyway must be the most degrading.

The twat is shifting about, still groaning. Instead of getting up, however, he seems content to continue commandeering my bed. Sighing, I wonder over to the bathroom and fill the bin with some cold water. When I return, he's awake, but I still launch the water at him.

Don't begrudge me my small pleasures in life.

"GAH! THE FUCK!?" Weasley makes a rather amusing song and dance about it, leaping off the bed as if he was on fire. If only.

I allow myself to snicker as I return to the table, leaning against it. He glowers at me for a bit, almost as if he's trying to remember me. Then he realises he isn't in his little hovel of a home.

"Where am I?"

"Leaky Cauldron," I say indifferently, inspecting my nails.

Weasley takes a long look around before landing his gaze on me. I truly wasn't watching him do this. Truly.

He stiffens, still a little drunk, "You know me."

I roll my eyes, "Unfortunately. Your poor breeding precedes you."

"_Malfoy!?"_

"Seven years of hearty enmity and you've already forgotten me? Really, Weasley, I was almost insulted that time."

He's gaping like a fish, and I must say, it does him some justice. Leaning slowly on my knees I take in what he's become. He's still tall, freakishly so, but not so lanky – almost as if he's grown into his height. Almost. Still blaringly freckled and ginger, I'm afraid. And he's sporting some sort of fungus on his face – I refuse to call something that heinous a beard. He looks lived in, comfortable. That stage in a relationship where one no longer feels the need to put effort in appearance. God smite me should I let myself go like that.

He's glaring at me and I see the young schoolboy shine through, "It isn't as if I'd _want_ to remember a smarmy, ferret-faced little shit like you!"

I sneer, "Big words for someone who was riding the skin off my _angelic_ hand, don't you think?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy." But the bite is gone and his face blanches significantly. He's sobering up rather fast.

"You'd like to, wouldn't you? Unfortunately I don't think you can afford those services," I counter smoothly, smirking. Weasley's face reddens again with anger and I can see his hands clench into shaking fists. Dear God how I do miss riling this fool up. His breathing is laboured and he can't meet my eye, but flickers his gaze onto my lips. A quick action, but I still notice it.

Weasley looks like he's going to lose it in my general direction, but instead his face melds into a sneer. A rather weak one, but I suppose it's the thought that counts.

"How the mighty have fallen. The great Draco Malfoy, selling his body for money?" he looks pleased with himself, "What, you're a dirty whore now? You suck cock to get by, Malfoy?"

"And?" I rest my hands onto the table behind me. I feel no shame in what I'm doing, "I still earn more in a night than you do in a year, _Weasel_, and I get to have fun while I do it. Excuse me, while I do _him."_

He stumbles back, confused. He didn't expect that and I delight in throwing him a curveball. Again. I slide off the table and take one step. And another. And another. I step until my nose touches Weasley's. His eyes are wide and he's squirming at how close I am. Again, he eyes my lips. I make a deal of sticking my tongue out and painstakingly drag it across my bottom lip. The moisture of my saliva leaves them glistening and sensitive to the bristles of Weasley's facial hair in a strangely erotic way.

He's crumbling under my gaze, under my mouth. I slide my body against his for the second time in the evening, curving my neck, never taking my eyes off his downcast ones. He shivers, raising his arms tentatively to rest them on my chest, but he stops before he can push me away. My hand slides into his jean pocket and I hear his breathing come to a complete stop. He leans forward slightly, lips hovering inches away from mine.

Think I've done enough work. I step back and pull out the handful of coins, "Thank you for your patronage, sir. Now, if you don't mind sodding off, I'd very much like to strip down to my boxers and sprawl all over my bed."

Weasel blinks once, twice and turns red as a beet with anger. He rushes forward, fist raised. I'm slightly surprised at his reaction and smirk as he stops inches away from me. He stares into my eyes, blue into grey, before shrinking away and stomping out of my room, possessions in tow.

I sigh contentedly. The night had started bleakly, but now I had enough fun to lull into a peaceful sleep.

Content that I'd never see Weasley again.


End file.
